Cupcake
by AeonBlue
Summary: "Go figure. Roman and Reina. An emperor, sorta, and a queen. Only in Texas." Cupcake, however, was a long story. So was raspberry shampoo, and the sting of limes at three in the morning.


First, Happy Birthday!  
Second - I hope you all enjoy. If there's enough interest, I'll work with the one-shot to make it into a multipart. If anyone's read my other works, you'll know I more than owe Roman a happy ending.

Enjoy!

* * *

"You've collected everything from the locker, press, and staging areas you used tonight?"

Irritated, Joe folded his arms and looked like he was about to launch outwardly into the horrible mood that been percolating inside him. The liaison from talent relations held up a hand, not bothering to wait for an answer.

"Of course you have; you've known this was coming for three days. You'll have to organize your own transportation from this point forward; we apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you for your service to the company and for the show tonight. We look forward to renewing our working relationship with you in thirty days. Have a pleasant evening." With that, the man turned on his heel and walked down the empty hallway, leaving Joe to stare after him in disbelief.

"Wait!" Joe yelled, "Wait just a fucking minute!" He sprinted down the hall, nearly plowing into the man because of how badly he'd misjudged the distance between them, "You had me wait here two fucking hours after the show, just to tell me I could drive myself, since you _know_ I don't have plane tickets _and_ I don't have a car here? Since you _know_ that there's basically zero chance I can rent a car right now, because it's one in the fucking morning? Even if I _did_ have plane tickets I can't _get_ to the airport! You _knew_ all that and you _still_ had me wait here!"

"Sir, I don't make the policies. You have to be the last to leave in order to avoid dramatic scenes, like this one. You also had three days to inform yourself of what, exactly, the consequences of your actions would be, and make the necessary arrangements." With half a smirk and an air of complete finality, the man walked away again, chuckling lowly and shaking his head.

All Joe could do as he heard the lights and generators in the arena begin to cycle down, was turn in helpless circles and look for the nearest exit. His phone still had a decent charge and he had service, so he could pull it together. Even if all "it" was, was a ride in a cab, which was exactly how things played out.

 _'It's Vegas,'_ Joe thought, as he poked and prodded at the screen of his phone from inside the grimy cab, _'Anyone can get anything at any time in Vegas. Except I want to rent a car and start driving cross-country in the middle of the night without being seen or bothered.'_ He'd already looked at plane tickets and while he could afford it, the only flights leaving for Florida involved sitting and waiting in the airport for the next three hours. Worse, he couldn't get hold of Jon to ask about staying at his condo – which didn't surprise him, there was too much to celebrate after the PPV and that night's show, and he was most assuredly out doing that. The cab driver, having a fledgling grasp of English, managed to put together that Joe wanted a car on the cheap, and took him to what could have been, at one time, a decent looking building with an attached garage but now looked to be one thunderstorm away from complete collapse. Paying his fare, Joe sighed and hauled his bags inside, trying to step around the stains on the carpet.

* * *

"Evening. Whaddaya need?"

 _Perfect. No eye contact._ "Whatever you have that's a one-way rental."

"One way? We only do local." The man behind the counter didn't look up from his Keno game, and Joe didn't expect that to change anytime soon.

 _'Okay. Think. You're in the middle of you-don't-know-where, and your cab left. What do you have going for you right now, besides nothing?'_ "Look, I know you've probably heard it all, but-"

"Yup. Don't care what your wife or girlfriend did. Don't care what you did."

"I have a black card. Name your price."

Looking up, arching an eyebrow, and watching Joe's hand slide the card out of his wallet, the man sniffled hard and wiped his nose with the back of his hand before offering it in a handshake. "Name's Barry. You gonna want something big? You're a tall fucker, but you know that."

"Yeah. Big is good." _'Just rent me the fuckin' thing and don't think too much. I'm tired. I wanna drive.'_

Joe didn't finish the rental process til two in the morning, didn't even start driving til two-thirty, after swinging through a gas station for fuel and snacks. Then, driving became a war between sleep, coffee, and the wheezing engine of an early-aughts SUV that probably hadn't seen an oil change in the past 10,000 miles. Joe called AmEx and had the card number changed, just in case Barry decided to help himself to part of the credit line, and decided to drive as far as he could on the patience and mechanical goodwill he had, knowing both were limited.

That decision landed him in Show Low, Arizona, at exactly 7:38 in the morning, at which point he pulled over on the side of the road and gave up, deciding sleep was a better choice than trying to figure out where he'd taken a wrong turn. He figured it was when he got off of I-40, but without knowing what interstate he was on now, it didn't matter. His phone didn't matter; neither did food or showering. Sleep mattered, and so he tried, doing his best to ignore the jostle of the SUV every time a semi blew past him as he waited on the shoulder and dozed.

* * *

"Reina? Reina! Where the fuck are you?" Frank clutched her name tag like it was a knife, the sharp corners sticking out from his fist as though he'd rather stab her with it than hand it to her, all other things being even.

Sighting, Reina moved her folded sheets and towels to the rack behind her. She already knew what was coming; it was better to have the counter in front of her cleared off than to have to refold five loads' worth of laundry because her boss was having yet another tantrum.

"In the back, Frank. Where I always am. With the laundry." She tried to keep the edge out of her voice, but damned if it wasn't a struggle for her. They went through this dance on a weekly basis, and it was past tiresome and well into insulting, for her.

Slamming the "Employee's Only" door open and leaving another dent in the wall – and Reina hated that errant apostrophe, had asked Frank a hundred times to take the sign down and have the guys at the bodyshop up the road drill a new one – Frank leaned disturbingly far across the counter, causing Reina to lean backwards and grab the edge for balance.

"You stood me up _again_ last night, Reina. _Again._ What's the excuse this time? Don't tell me you couldn't find a babysitter, you don't have a kid. Don't tell me your sick mother needed you, you don't _have_ a mother. You fuckin' spawned from Satan, far as I'm concerned." He leaned back, looking her up and down as she stood behind the counter, the heat and steam of the laundry room billowing out behind her. "You's even got Hell in back'a you, Reina. Gonna spend the whole night in there washin', dryin', and foldin'. _And_ workin' the front. Somehow, _everyone_ else got the night off."

"Frank, you've gotta be kidding. Because I told you no? I _always_ tell you no. _You_ ask me out, _I_ tell you no." Reina cast a backward glance at the steam clouds rolling out of the laundry area where the first round of wash was processing, glad she could change from her denim shorts into the lighter poly of her uniform. Motel Quemado might have been cheesy border-trash in a lot of ways, but at least the uniforms breathed in the near-Mexican heat.

If Reina looked across the parking lot on a clear night, she could convince herself she could see _into_ Mexico, and it let her think about family. She was legal – dual-citizenship, in fact – she came over with her abuela and in her madre, right blood just wrong birthplace, but grandma was long since in a nursing home in Piedras Negras. Mama ran back and forth across the border after Reina was born, so she saw her when she saw her: infrequently. Papa was a question mark that nobody cared to turn into clearer punctuation, and so Abuela Guadalupe raised her as she saw fit – strict, stern, and religious.

Reina was a bit of a hellion, in response. She made it through high school and safely into college, but not without a fair amount of drinking, some near-misses with boys, and access to the finest blow that Mexico had to offer, what with being practically on top of the border, on 277 and I-10 in Texas. Quemado might have been a dump, but it had some advantages when you were a teen.

As it happened, teens made plans, and then teens grew up, and then somehow Reina found herself no longer a teen but still coming back to Quemado even though she had a college degree. That was before her abuela had been moved to Piedras Negras, so she convinced herself coming back to Quemado was only to see her grandmother. Then, she stayed even after her grandmother left, and she realized it was because she had no plan. All Reina had was a low-paying job as a desk clerk at a motel that saw next to no business unless someone got lost coming down I-10 or out of Mexico, and a shitty boss who liked to grab her ass and harass her about going on dates with him to the Valley Mart.

* * *

Frank swept the counter clean, which luckily only sent an iron, some cans of spray starch, and a stack of laundry baskets to the floor. Reina snapped her face forward again, away from the laundry room, and for a split-second she wished the iron was still hot when his arm touched it, but then mentally crossed herself and asked forgiveness. Frank might have been an asshole, but he wasn't deserving of great bodily harm quite yet.

"Enjoy your shift, cupcake," Frank hissed, throwing her name tag at her face. "You've got the whole building to yourself this afternoon. And tonight. Let's hope nothing interesting comes crawling out of the desert. Don't let me catch you wearing anything but The Special."

* * *

The constant jostle of the SUV was beginning to make Joe seasick. He hadn't pulled far enough off on the shoulder, and the rattle of the truck-traffic was heavy enough that he gave up on sleep after only five hours. He drove briefly, then stopped at yet another gas station and did what he could with his hair, trying to hide it enough not to be recognized, and squinted through the glass of the service kiosk before deciding to go in. Joe knew he'd have better chances of not being noticed if he was helped by older staff rather than younger, the 'grizzled male' type preferred over women. He lucked out, the Citgo he picked was run by a clueless but kind husband and wife team, right on the edge of what he discovered was the Gila National Forest and the last decent cell reception he'd have for miles. He bought four extra gas cans worth of fuel on top of filling the tank, and surprised himself by clearing all of his voicemail, including that from his family and wife, without bothering to listen to it. _'Just not in the mood,'_ he thought, _'I guess I'd rather do it in person? I'd rather not explain it at all. I'd rather pretend it just didn't happen, get through the next month and blank it all out.'_

That was the last of the luck Joe would have, however. He made it from Show Low to San Antonio far too quickly – there was no way he could have hit Texas so fast. He'd been doing nothing but driving due east, hadn't turned south at all, would have had to miss an entire state for that to happen, and while he hadn't gotten enough sleep, he also knew he wasn't so exhausted, low on gas, or strung-out – and wasn't _that_ a concept to consider, he thought wryly – that he could have lost several hundred miles and simply not noticed. Not knowing what else to do, Joe continued driving, hoping there would be another gas station where he could get directions.

Several hundred miles passed before Joe found a convenience store he was comfortable stopping at; just after Truth Or Consequences and before Arrey. Sports radio told him it was a bad idea to stop at anything in a major city, and now that he figured out where he was, he knew he wasn't stopping in Las Cruces or El Paso, though the geographical void between El Paso and Fort Stockton seemed safe enough. His suspension made the news, and he didn't want to hear about what a terrible role model he was, what an asshole, a disappointment, a let down. He knew it. He felt it. He didn't need it confirmed by a thousand strangers who thought they knew _better_ , they knew what he lived or what he came from.

It was that pressure, more than anything, that pushed him down into bed when he knew he had to get up just a little earlier, that pinned him against the ropes when he knew he needed to move just a little faster, that pulled the corners of his mouth down when he knew he had to smile just a little brighter. _'Just a little more. Always a little more from me, and always for everyone else. For family, for lineage, for fuck all knows what and who and why else, and when do I get to set that shit down and just be Joe and not be the goddamned character?'_ He drove just a little faster than he should have, the SUV being the one thing he was willing to ask more of, because it was for himself.

The SUV cooperated, shockingly. A little too well, now that Joe thought about it. He kept looking at the gas gauge, expecting it to sink lower, but it hadn't. In fact, it hadn't for nearly an hour, and that was when Joe realized it _should_ have; in fact he _should_ have stopped for gas somewhere on either side of Fort Stockton. The news on the radio hadn't improved, and he knew he didn't want to stop anywhere major until he hit Pensacola – more accurately, his driveway. Frustrated, he tapped at the plastic covering the dashboard, and the needle on the gas gauge began to sink, then stop. Joe slowed down, leaned forward, and squinted. _'I didn't...did I make it drop? No. Nah. It doesn't work like that. Lemme...here. Wait.'_ Trying again, Joe thumped soundly on the top of the dash, and this time, the gas gauge started a death-fall, landing at what was almost the 'E'. Groaning, he pulled onto the shoulder, and emptied a gas can into the tank before starting the SUV again. Cheerfully, obligingly, the gas gauge popped up to a quarter-tank, and he started to drive again, wincing at his sudden headache.

"Okay," Joe spoke out into the dry air, looking down at the single bottle of water and half-eaten Snickers bar he had with him, "I passed...uh...Stockton. Fort Stockton. That was...shit. That was a while ago. I have three gas cans left. I can make it...somewhere. There's gotta be something." Unbeknownst to Joe, the only 'something' there would be was dehydration.

* * *

"Fuck," Reina mumbled, "Seriously, fuck." She slowly clipped what Frank had generously referred to as, 'The Special' into her uniform blouse. "Cupcake. Again. Because I said no dates." She knew the drill. Whenever Frank was in one of his moods with her, her name tag never said Reina. It always said Cupcake. All of his female staff had pet names – Sugar, Honey, Babydoll – but she landed a doozy. Cupcake. Reina's was also the only one emblazoned on a chunk of wearable plastic; her punishment for never indulging Frank. The motel's décor never moved out of the 50's, and neither had the uniforms, so the pastel pink get-up she was in, complete with flared skirt, looked like a giant upside-down dessert. It also looked like it was better suited to a diner, but Frank liked it. She was the maid, she was the waitress during breakfast, and when she was behind the front desk Frank said it looked 'cute'. Sighing and cracking open the Red Bull she managed to shake out of the vending machine, Reina settled in for what looked to be an 18-hour shift, minimum. When Frank wanted to be a dick, he was a dick of epic proportions. It was still early enough in the day that all the washers were cycling, She'd turned the dryers off, and Frank hadn't found the cooler her neighbor Otis had dropped off at the back sally door, loaded down with ice, limes, and beer. Reina was allowed to have the lobby TV on; she clicked over to C-SPAN and watched Congress vote on a series of immigration policies.

* * *

Two gas cans and one-half candy bar later, and Joe was in more trouble than he knew. There were no towns, only farm fields, he was out of water, and he'd be out of gas sooner than he realized. He had to keep hitting the dashboard to see where the gas gauge was _really_ at, and even then, he wasn't sure it was right. Lack of water and reasoning had kept him from stopping when he should have; he cruised past the towns of Sanderson and Langtry, shaking his head and squinting to be sure he was even on the road – a close brush with the ditch was enough to scare him out of the mid 80's and down to a respectable 65 MPH, though it made an already long and hot drive that much more slow and painful. When even punching the dashboard – not just hitting, but solidly punching it – produced no appreciable results from the gas gauge, he knew. He was sunk. It was time for the last gas can to go in. _'At least the sun is setting. It'll cool off. I hope. The desert gets cool at night, right? Isn't this the desert? Those are farms, who farms in the desert? Where the fuck am I?'_

Heat exhaustion was an insidious thing, and its lava fingers slid around Joe's throat while he wasn't paying attention. His hands were shaking so badly that a solid third of the gasoline went down the side of the SUV rather than into it, but he didn't have the energy to be upset. He didn't even have the energy to pick up the gas can when he dropped it, nor was he sure it was empty. Joe just dragged himself back to the driver's seat and set off again, trying to get somewhere. Anywhere. A rest stop would do, a town would be like manna from heaven. He sped around the city of Del Rio, its lights distantly bright against the rapidly darkening sky, real and glittering, clearly full of too many people and thus not an option for him. The highway formed a sudden junction away from Del Rio and around Laughlin Air Force Base, confusing him and forcing a decision he was in no condition to make. Suddenly, Joe was no longer on I-90, the one constant in a night that was lacking any, and he felt, more than heard, the engine give a warning shudder. The base faded behind him, and Joe kept driving, not knowing what else he could do, other than keep trying futilely to pull the last few drops of water out of a bottle he already knew was empty.

* * *

Reina lowered the volume on the TV, but hadn't shut it off. She'd put off moving the wet laundry into the dryers as long as she could, but it had to be done, and so she was standing at the front desk with her fluffy skirt sagging in the back from the weight of the dryer-steam pressing against it. The lobby was empty, and she was staring absently across the parking lot at the stacked rows of rooms across from the office. The motel was one-third full, the guests weren't ringing for anything, and Reina was debating the merits of slipping out to the back for a Corona when a dust-coated SUV with the worst case of tappet noise she'd ever heard coasted into the lot. She circled the desk and pushed open the front door, only to yank it closed again – the lot was flooded with the maple-sweet stench of burning coolant. Running behind the desk and grabbing the phone, she dialed Otis, praying he wasn't so deep into his own beer that he wouldn't be useful.

"Hey, Odi-"

"Oye, mamacita! Que tal?" Otis, clearly enjoying his evening, had a soccer match blasting in the background. Reina could tell it was on his radio, which meant he was in his garage, which meant he could possibly drive his wrecker.

"Odieboo, you wanna do me one more favor tonight?"

"Girl, when you sing my name like that? How can a man resist?" Otis laughed, and Reina rotated the desk fan to blow air toward the door – the maple smell was starting to seep in, and the driver looked like he was seeping forward in his seat, over the steering wheel. "No, really, niñita, what is it?"

"I need your sorry ass and your wrecker. In that order. Some guy just rolled up on my lot, and he looks like he just died in his driver's seat. I'm gonna go check on him, but if you see lights and sirens here, try to look sober, okay?"

"If I see lights and sirens, I'm gonna roll right on by, so you better hope he landed in a parking spot." Otis belched into the phone, then continued, "No offense, bella dama, but I already have enough DUIs for this lifetime."

Reina looked out into the parking lot, just in time to see Joe push his door open and slide out, barely managing to hold himself up by clinging to the handle. "Nah, Odieboo, he's okay. Looks like just drunk. He's standing up, anyway. You can just bring your sorry ass and your wrecker – no cops tonight."

"Ask and you shall receive, little lady. I'll be there in twenty. So...probably 45 in Odieboo-Time."

Reina hung up, looking up just in time to see the man, who seemed much smaller when clinging to the SUV's door – which he hadn't bothered to shut – now leaning against the door to the lobby, managing to stumble through it to let himself in. Out of courtesy, she turned the TV off, and prepared to either mop vomit off the floor or use the rug as a sled to drag him off to the side once he passed out.

Disoriented, ears ringing, gagging on the maple smell that he couldn't escape, Joe saw Reina's dryer steam-clouds like gobs of whipped cream, and she became a frosted pink fairy floating in their midst. Until she turned the TV off, of course. Then paranoia set in, courtesy of lack of water, and he was convinced that she knew about him. His shame, his public disgrace that he wished could have somehow stayed as private as the restroom in which it started.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" More a growled threat and less a question, made all the worse by his gravel throat, Joe was furious with Reina for reasons he couldn't articulate, and lunged for her.

"That was me turning off the TV? So I can help you?" Edging back away from the counter, Reina knew this would be a losing fight with a man who was maybe not drunk, but possibly very high on something. Otis was coming, that was her best hope even if he was coming on Odieboo Time. "It looks like your SUV's in bad shape, I've got a friend who can get you a tow to his gara-"

"What the _fuck_ were you watching?" Joe, now laying over the counter, was tall enough to be in Reina's space even though she'd moved back. His breath was sour, and Reina recognized it not as an overabundance of alcohol, but a complete lack of water. "Put the fucking TV back _on._ " He pointed behind him at the TV with such force that he twisted himself, tangling his feet around each other.

"Okay. Okay, let me get the remote. It's...uh, it's under you. Can you hand it to me, or move? And can I get you some water?" At the mention of water Joe pushed himself off the counter and tried to get to a chair, but instead fell straight down. Reina rolled her eyes, but grabbed a few quarters from the petty cash box under the counter, along with the remote. Moving out from the counter, she clicked on the TV and stuck an arm out the door to wave at Otis, who arrived early. He blinked his brights in response, threw Joe's phone, suitcases, and duffle out into the middle of the parking lot, hooked the SUV to his wrecker, and disappeared as quickly as he came.

"See? C-SPAN." Reina dropped three quarters into the vending machine, pressed the button for a bottle of water, and then shouldered the machine, hard. It spit back two quarters and two bottles of water, one of which she handed to the man on the floor.

"He threw all my shit in the fucking parking lot!" Joe hadn't bothered opening the water, but was trying to get up, go back outside and do...something. What, he wasn't quite sure, but something. Collect his things, maybe, or chase down his car, but suddenly the puffy pink hem of a skirt appeared in front of his face and a forceful knee connected with his chest, knocking him back.

"And you left your fucking _door open_ , in case you forgot, so what difference does it make? If someone wanted your shit, it would be gone already. Sit there, watch the TV, drink the water, and I'm gonna go get your bags. Service with a fucking smile. Jesus. This is what I get for getting you a free tow?" Reina stalked out to the parking lot, collected all of Joe's things, tucked his phone safely down her bra, and huffed and sweated her way across the pavement and up to the second floor of the motel, dropping his bags outside of room 218.

Water helped and hurt Joe's situation. He drank it too fast and then fought nausea. _'She really wasn't_ _watching ESPN, it wasn't about me. Who the fuck watches C-SPAN? And where did my rental go? She took my bags? Who is she? Where am I?'_ Still on the floor, trying to get control of his stomach, Joe was afraid to move but knew he couldn't stay in the lobby all night.

"Hey. You better now?" Reina appeared and crouched in front of Joe, trying to adjust her skirt so she didn't flash him. "I took your bags up. You probably don't wanna do stairs, but I cleaned 218 today so I know it's right. My friend out there – Otis – picked up your SUV. He works a body shop up the road, auto repair, all that. He'll let you know what's going on with it in the morning, because you came in here all coolant and gaskets. Oh – and here's your phone." Rummaging down her front, Reina handed Joe his phone, which he shakily accepted.

"Sorry I came in like an asshole. I had a long day." Feeling dumb beyond words, Joe didn't look up.

"You mean you're not from around here and you got your ass tore up by this heat," Reina smiled, "Drink the other bottle of water, but go slow. I don't wanna mop up after you. Lemme go check the dryers; _you_ don't get up yet. And don't worry about blocking the lobby. You're the only thing happening tonight." Heading behind the counter and disappearing, then cycling down the dryers, Reina came back a few minutes later, keys in hand, cheeks flushed and her high ponytail drooping. "Ready to try for your room? It's a short walk, honest."

"Maybe. Where am I? And can I get something to eat?"

"Where? A motel. Quemado. Texas. You're real close to Mexico, if that's what you were aiming for. Food, well...I probably ran out of goodwill with Otis for carryout, but I'll see what I can do from here. You really haven't had anything all day?"

Shaking his head, Joe tried to push up to vertical and almost clipped his head on the overhang of the counter. It was only Reina's quick hand pulling him forward that spared him, but it toppled him onto her. The close landing put Joe at chest-level with her, and he started to chuckle, then laugh outright, and he couldn't stop himself from grabbing her blouse and pulling it forward, untucking it and making sure he'd gotten it properly into focus.

" _Cupcake_? You're seriously named _Cupcake_?" Joe's stomach gave a warning pitch, and he swallowed hard, trying to will himself not to vomit on the woman who'd just gotten his SUV towed, hauled his luggage to his room, and brought him water.

"No. I'm Reina. Cupcake is...a long story. Maybe when you're feeling better. What's your name?"

There, Joe froze. So far, he hadn't been asked to show ID to pay for anything, and Reina didn't seem to know who he was. Did he want to be Joe? Or did he want to be the character for one more night?

 _'Split the difference,'_ his mind told him, _'See what happens.'_ "Joe. But...Roman, too. And that's a long story. Maybe when I'm feeling better."

Reina cocked an eyebrow, and half a smile crossed her face. "Go figure. Roman and Reina. An emperor, sorta, and a queen. Only in Texas." She grabbed his hands and braced her feet firmly on the floor, pulling at him. "C'mon. Up. So you can get to feeling better. I'll find you something from the staff kitchen, just give me a few minutes." She trudged with him to his room – he was horrid on the stairs; she ended up pushing him into the wall so he could slide against it as she steadied him – and then opened the door for him. His room still smelled like lemon and cleanser.

"It's nice, Reina." _'It actually is nice. It's old, but it's okay. I can handle this for a day or two. Depends on what's going on with the SUV, I guess.'_ "What time is breakfast?"

"No, don't come down for that. It's shitty. I'll bring you up something better. Nine-ish or so, I think that's when Frank will let me off shift. Get some rest. If you need anything, just hit zero on the phone. If I don't pick up right away, I'm out back. I'll come up in a few, anyway, you said you wanted something to eat."

"What's out back?" Joe was curious; it was hot outside. Too hot.

"Otis dropped off a cooler. Beer. If you can't sleep, come out." She shrugged. "Can't hurt anything, right? You look okay. Normal, I mean. To have a drink with."

True to her word, Reina came back to drop off a plate of what was the best Mexican food Joe had ever eaten, though he couldn't name any of it – she slipped in while he was showering, and slipped back out equally quietly – and once he was finished, he stepped out on the balcony walkway outside his door, overlooking the parking lot. There wasn't much of Quemado to see, at least not from where he was, but he did have a straight line of sight into the lobby. It was empty; Reina – Cupcake – was nowhere to be found. Joe didn't have any real need to go talk to her, even less of a need to go drink with a complete stranger after being heatsick for most of the day, but he wasn't tired, either. His stomach was settled, his hands were still, his vehicle was God knew where, and his phone was finally, blessedly silent. _'Good. I shouldn't think that's good, but it's good. Quiet is good.'_ Joe shook the water off his shower sandals and headed down the stairs and across the lot, letting himself into the lobby and behind the front desk, cautiously poking his head behind the 'Employee's Only' door – finding himself as annoyed as Reina about the errant apostrophe.

There was a simple hallway behind the door; left was laundry, right was kitchen, and straight back was out to where he assumed Reina was, since the door was propped open by a giant cooler full of ice and what looked to be bottles of Corona. Joe walked toward her invitation, hoping it was still open.

* * *

"Reina? Er, Cupcake? Whatever, I mean. It's me. Uh, Joe. Roman. Whatever. Is it still cool if I come outside?"

"Si, si. Come on. Watch the door, there's a step. And good luck finding somewhere to sit." Reina pointed at the stains on the concrete and passed a bottle up to him. "There's a bowl in there with limes and a knife. I cut a few already." Joe leaned down and fished a lime wedge out, thumbed off the cap on the bottle, and mashed the citrus in, enjoying the sting of the acid against his lips when he drank – apparently, they'd chapped due to lack of water, or he'd licked them raw, one of the two. The burn was real, though, and there was something reassuring in the pain, there and then gone. _'Temporary. Hurts now, gone fast.'_

"Otis is pretty sweet on you, huh?" Joe didn't have a better opening line, but figured it was accurate. Most men didn't drop off coolers of beer and bowls of citrus for women they weren't at least a little interested in, if not outright fucking.

"Nope. Otis was sweet on my abuelita. You didn't get a good look at him, did you? Old enough to be my grandpa. I might have daddy issues, but they don't run like _that._ " Reina laughed, something sugary and on the edge of drunkenness, and swung her legs back and forth over the edge of the concrete loading dock. Joe looked around – there really wasn't much to choose from, for seating – and put himself down next to her. She smelled like laundry starch and raspberry shampoo, the cheap kind from a dollar store, and something that was powdery and a little like vanilla. The beer was _not_ a good idea. "What about you? Someone sweet on you who'd be all pissed off you're having beers at three in the morning with some girl dressed like a tacky waitress? Because that's a hell of a wedding ring right there." Reina poked at Joe's hand with the mouth of her beer bottle, and rather than be repulsed by the gesture, that her mouth had been on the glass rim that was touching his hand, Joe found himself wondering just how old she was.

"Oh. Yeah, that. Married. You?"

"Nope. No kids, no husband, not even a cat. You'd think by the time I hit thirty I'd at _least_ have a couple cats and _one_ failed marriage, but all I ended up with was a college degree and this _spectacular_ job in tiny-town. Clearly, I am _killing it_ at this whole 'life' thing."

 _'That answers that. Thirties. Small town girl, or some shit.'_ "Okay, so if you aren't happy here, why are you _still_ here?" Joe killed off one beer far more quickly than he expected and reached for another without asking; the cooler was _beyond_ well-stocked and Reina didn't seem worried about clients or consequences, as far as the motel or her manager went. There were two empty bottles next to her, and the one in her hand was nearly gone. She seemed comfortable.

"Enh. No money. No real motivation, if I'm being honest. My abuelita raised me here, Ma was too busy running all over who the fuck knows where, dad never was around, and that was that. Got myself out of some shit in high school, and then tried to get outta here. I thought college was gonna be the answer, but I ended up coming back because...I didn't really have a plan after college, and then I just sorta hung around. Always thought I'd go to a big city and get a big job, but never made the big move." Reina elbowed Joe, who automatically passed her another beer, complete with lime. "And you? Something dragged your ass through the desert, and it wasn't anything good. Grown ass men don't put themselves through shit like that because it's sunshine and roses where they came from."

Joe cringed; Reina had him there. He'd spent the whole night mentally avoiding the topic, dodging calls, deleting voice mail without listening to it, and skittering around major cities like a cockroach avoiding the light. Maybe it was the beer, or the heat, maybe he wasn't as composed as he thought he was, or he just really liked her shampoo, but something made him want to talk.

"You said sunshine and roses, right, Cupcake?"

"No, I said it _wasn't_ sunshine and roses," Reina corrected, "You rode the fuck out of that SUV, and you weren't anywhere near ready to drive through this kinda heat. Which either means you didn't know you were going, or you didn't want to stop anywhere on the way."

"Both," Joe cut in, " _Definitely_ both. I fucked up at work. Big time. Now I'm suspended for a month."

"Shit," Reina followed with a low whistle, "Seriously, _shit._ Your union worked some kinda magic, then. Thirty days means whatever you did was good enough to get you fired. They saved your ass."

"Cupcake, I don't have a union. This was a first-time fuckup. Thirty days for a one time, first time mistake. Thing of it is," Joe started to reach for Reina, then thought better of it because he realized he was going directly for her thighs; her skirt was somehow exceptionally, hotly pink, and very short. He turned the maneuver into a stretch instead, "The whole reason I'm in this shit is _because_ of my job. Yeah, I made the mistake, but I made it because I can't keep up with what they want."

"How'd'you mean? They're giving you too much to do and you're doing it wrong, or..." Reina stopped, had none of the same reservations Joe had about contact, and turned him by the shoulder to face her, "You know, this would go a _lot_ better if I actually knew what the fuck you did. Not, like, what you _did_ , I mean, what your job is. It's one thing if you missed a deadline on a contract for a few hundred grand, it's another thing if you killed someone."

 _'There we go,'_ Joe's mind snapped to attention; better than some of the other moving parts his body was giving him, _'Contracts. You fucked up a contract, didn't you? Just not the way she thinks.'_ "Yeah, Cupcake. Just like you said. I fucked up a contract, and it was for...well, more than a few hundred grand, put it that way. I work in...entertainment."

Reina burst out laughing. "Honey, they don't pay _that_ much for porn."

Joe looked at her like she'd lost her mind, and took her beer bottle out of her hand. "I don't know if I should be amused or upset you think I'm in _that_ kind of entertainment. You _might_ be done drinking."

"Joe – well, Roman, I guess, right? That's the stage name? It kinda makes sense. What'd you do, miss a taping? Vivid Video not real happy with you at the moment?" She punched him in the arm and took her beer back. "And c'mon now. Men don't look like _you_ look, for no reason. You're puttin' it to _someone_ for money, or else your wife is the luckiest thing on two legs."

Joe snorted, then chuckled, settling on amused and moving toward flattered that Reina's mind had gone down that particular path. "Yeah, I guess she is. She's not gonna be happy with me now, though."

"Well...I guess that depends on what you did to fuck up the contract, right? It's one thing if you broke the contract, like, just didn't show up. It's another thing if you did something...I don't know, something more serious. I _don't_ work in entertainment, so what am I gonna say? Serious for me is forgetting to make sure there's enough fitted sheets. You prob-"

Distantly, a phone rang, and Reina groaned, half-rolling over onto her stomach and pushing herself up the loading dock. "I gotta get that. Help yourself, hopefully I'll be right back. If not, don't feel like you have to wait for me." Affectionately, drunkenly, Reina leaned down over Joe and wrapped an arm over his shoulder, barely reaching around a third of him. "Whatever you did, it can't be that bad. You kept your job, you get to go back to work in a month – to entertaining, or whatever you do, porn, I don't know. Whatever you do, it's not this. Anything's better than being someone's cupcake."

As luck would have it, Frank was on the phone. He spent the better part of a half hour bellowing at Reina, having her go over a midnight checklist with him that consisted more of him asking her to go up to Del Rio with him for a movie than actually completing the key count or finishing the supply inventory. Joe eventually did shuffle through the lobby, beer bottle in hand, pausing just long enough to consider wrapping at least one arm around Reina before he left for his room, a sort of gesture good-night, but decided against it. It wasn't that it was too personal, it was that he wasn't sure it was a good idea for him to know if it was raspberry shampoo and vanilla perfume, or the other way around. Odds were, he'd sort that out in a dream, anyway.

The next morning, Joe woke to a gentle knock on his door, followed by the soft jingle of keys. Reina let herself in without waiting, but was kind enough to back through the door. He didn't move; something told him to hold still and barely slit his eyes open. Reina looked exhausted; when she turned, Joe could see dark circles under her eyes, and she stuffed down more than a few yawns. Quietly, Reina set down a plate on the bedside table, and turned to go. She made it to the door before she stopped and turned again, unclipping her nametag and walking over to Joe's luggage.

"It's Cupcake," she whispered, "Because I won't fuck my boss. He's an asshole when he doesn't get his way. I'd rather just be suspended, like you. Maybe it'd make me leave, you know? It'd be part of the big plan I never had." She pinned the tag inside the loop of the strap on Joe's duffle, low and near the body of the bag; if he hadn't watched her do it, he would never have found it on his own. "There," she continued lowly, straightening up and slipping off her shoes, "Now you know the story. Adios, Roman. No queens in Quemado. Just one Reina." With that, she was out the door and down the stairs, walking barefoot across the parking lot, hot asphalt stinging her toes while she wondered if she should keep going til she disappeared entirely.


End file.
